


The Ballerina and the Beached Whale

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-21
Updated: 2008-05-21
Packaged: 2018-12-27 13:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12081618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: “Jeeze, are you kidding?” he says incredulously. “If anything, I love you more now. That whole perfection thing can be such a turn-off sometimes. It’s stuff like this that helps me remember you’re not a robot.”“What makes you so sure?”





	The Ballerina and the Beached Whale

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:

I'm not sure where this fits in the series, so I guess it's more of a stand-alone. But, I _can_ promise that there are no ballerinas, whales or robots in the story. 

* * *

FUCKING.

 

ASSHOLES.

So apparently, in design school they’re teaching that 16” by 20” black foamcore is code for 20” by 30” blue foamcore. At least, that’s what the interns in your art department seem to believe. Christ. All you need right now was to get out of this fucking suit and into Sunshine’s ass. Of course, that would prove difficult since Justin isn’t in the loft. Where the fuck is he? His art class ended 3 hours ago. You push aside the urge to consider why exactly you know Justin’s timetable, and throw your briefcase on the island. As you loosen your tie, you hear a cough. Since, last time you checked, inanimate objects didn’t tend to do that, you determine you aren’t alone in the loft. You peer in the general direction of where the cough had resonated, and find a piece of blond boy ass lying on his back on the floor in front of the couch, joint in hand. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What the fuck…” “Hi Brian!!” Justin says in a sing-song voice, waving like a 5-year-old ballerina to her mother in the audience. Who did that make you? “I’m fat as a pancake!” he announces, before dissolving into giggles. You take note of his observation, and continue to inquire, “Sunshine, why are you on the floor?” “This is the best view of the loft. Panoramic” he emphasizes with a round hand gesture. Lightweight. “That’s lovely, dear” you say, laying on the sugary sweet sarcasm for good measure. “Now c’mon, get up.” You offer him your hand, which in retrospect was a really fucking dumb idea. He takes it, and yanks you off your feet onto the floor beside him. Little.   
Bitch. He bursts into victorious laughter because clearly, his comedic genius is unsurpassed. You turn to tell him exactly how you plan to punish him when he takes the opportunity of your slightly opened mouth to stick the joint between your lips, adding a high pitched “boop!” for good measure. You try to decide between killing him and giving in to his irresistible cuteness, and opt for the tidier of the two. He whisper-sings in your ear “come fly with me, come fly, come fly awaaaaaay” as you take a long drag, and laugh out loud at the sheer corniness. “Wow, Sunshine, you’re a regular Sinatra.” By then he’s laying big wet Great-Auntie-Maybel kisses all over your face and you find yourself grinning and scrunching up your nose as the smoky-sweet intoxication finds its way into your bloodstream. He entwines a hand in your hair and plays with it, and you close your eyes and try to pretend it doesn’t feel as good as it does. You close your eyes and let yourself drift between the feeling of his fingertips against his scalp and the sound of him prattling on about the crazy lady he saw on the bus with a racoonskin cap, the super-hot new instructor at PIFA, and the benefits of having a potassium-rich diet. You laugh with him about the dumbass interns at your work, while you feel his breath against your neck and for the next hour or two, you shift between comfortable silence, lazy make-out sessions and observations about Emmett’s new beau or Ted’s lackthereof.

************************************************************************************

Justin places a hand on your cheek, leans into your ear and whispers “tell me a secret.” Your head is swimming, and you feel your face pull into a lazy smile. You scour your brain for a witty retort, and come up with “mmmmmnnnnnno.” Genius. “C’maaaaaaaaaaan. Something that people don’t know about you. Or, at least, that I don’t know about you. C’mon c’mon c’monc’monc’mon….” “Ummmmm only if you do. If yours is really good, I’ll consider telling you something.” You say lazily, the words fighting themselves out of your tingling, kaleidiscopic brain.“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Ok.” Justin adjusts himself so he’s facing you, propping himself up on one elbow. “You know how I am an exceptional dancer?” you snort. “You know it’s true.” Yeah, you did. You cock an eyebrow at him. Justin rolls his eyes and continued. “Well, anyway, it’s because I have had some training.” …Training? “What??” “That’s right, at the ripe ol’ age of seven, I began to train as a ballet dancer. I wanted it more than anything else in the world, and so my mom signed me up for lessons, only we kept it a secret from my Dad, because he wanted me to play T-ball or some shit, something manly.” “Holy shit” you snicker. “You were a ballerina?” Justin shoves your shoulder. “It explains so much.” “Shut up! I loved it, it felt amazing. I was pretty damn good too, my teacher loved me. I was her golden boy.” “No pun intended” you smirk, running a hand through his blond locks. He grins. “Yeah, well, anyway, eventually my Dad found out, and that was the end of that. He actually walked into the studio one day, mid-class, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me out. I practiced in my room secretly for about a year afterward, but eventually I just gave up.” “That doesn’t really count as a secret though, does it? That you took dance classes when you were younger?” You say skeptically. “Sure it does! I mean, I’ve never told anybody else before now, so…” Wait, what? You don’t want to read into it too much, or at least, look like you’re reading into it too much… “Why not?” He just shrugs. “I dunno, it was pretty humiliating. I know that taking dance isn’t that big of a deal, but my Dad made it seem like something to be ashamed of, so I was. Long story short, the only people who know are me and my parents. And now you.” Justin pats your shoulder before flopping onto his back. “Your turn.” You kind of want to tell him. No, you don’t. But it’s not THAT big a deal. But nobody really knows. Then again…that thing he just told you was kind of a big deal…Just do it. You kind of want to tell hi-…someone anyway. Heaving a sigh and turning onto your side to look at him square in the eye, you take the plunge. “I was a fat kid.” He immediately props himself up on his shoulders, giving you his full attention. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Too late now. “You were a what??” You nod labouredly, like you were confessing murder. “Up until I was about 12, I was tubby. Like, really tubby.” You gesture with your hands to accentuate the tubbiness. “Like, kids called me Tubs, Lardo, Beached Whale…” A grin is spreading rapidly across his face, to the point where it looks like it might actually go past his ears. “You were a fat kid…” Oh Jeeze. “It was just baby fat, I grew out of it once puberty hit, before I even met Mikey.” “Before you met Mikey?” He repeats curiously. You nod. “So, does he know?” Oh great, now he’s figured out that he knows something about you that Mikey doesn’t. Besides, of course, the feel of your dick in his ass. “He and I never exactly went flipping through my family photo albums, no.” He starts to giggle. Not a good sign. “You…You used to be a little chubs.” “Ok, shut it. Now.” “You used to have little chubby cheeks…” He’s pinching your cheeks. Who the fuck does he think he is? You swat his hands away and suppress a grin. “And a little chubby tummy…” Above all the hidden fragility, and how much you really care about him, and the walls you put up and what put them there, there’s one thing that you really and truly regret Justin ever learning about. You’re fucking ticklish. He goes for the “chubby” tummy, and you’re giggling like a fuckin’ 13-year-old schoolgirl and gasping for breath. “Stop…I’ll fucking… kill you…motherfucking twat…I am not…afraid…to kick you…in….the fucking balls.” “But you love my balls, tubsy!” He counters, quite eloquently.“Stop…stop…stop….stuh…..” You quite literally can’t breathe, and this becomes apparent to him when you’re face has turned a nice shade of mauve, and he lets up, lying down next to you on the floor again. “…fucking kill you.” You pant. He snorts. “Well, we’re quite a pair, aren’t we? The ballerina and the beached whale” he sighs. You smirk. “So I guess I’m probably ruined for you, having once been obese and all.” “Jeeze, are you kidding?” he says incredulously. “If anything, I love you more now. That whole perfection thing can be such a turn-off sometimes. It’s stuff like this that helps me remember you’re not a robot.” “What makes you so sure?” You turn your head slowly towards him. “I-am-homotron. I-have-been-programmed-to-pound-you-into-the-mattress. But-first-I-must-perform-sweet-acts-of-torture-on-your-tummy-and-surrounding-areas.” You pounce on top of him and tickle him until he’s squealing like a stuck pig. The neighbors have undoubtedly heard more incriminating noises coming from the loft, but the combination of something between an emu and a guinea pig, and you screaming “ERROR! ERROR!” in a robotic voice had to have been a first. Whatever, you two were stoned out of your fucking minds, and happy as ever. 


End file.
